


Off, Off Book

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock delve into transcripts from a phone-sex center, for a case... of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off, Off Book

Sherlock smoothes the papers across the coffee table and hunkers down, elbows resting against knees. As his eyes scan the information, John makes coffee. Strong, Central American, with extra sugar. A long night calls for diesel-strength caffeine; Sherlock no longer has to inform him of this.

John’s become quite well-versed in reading his flatmate, knows just what each situation they’re in calls for. If pressed, he surely would assert that he knows the man better than any other; to himself he admits this as a point of pride. ‘Consulting Detective Whisperer,’ John had once deemed himself, much to Sherlock’s derision.

Waiting in the kitchen, hip against the lip of the counter, John reviews what he knows of this case that will surely keep them awake until the late hours of the morning. A sex smuggling ring somehow anchored in one of London’s many sex-call centers.

This particular call center was unique, however, for its upscale clientele and relatively classy demeanor of the men and women working the lines; women with college degrees and men from the family of landed gentry. Also unique was the fact that the owner of the line had been the one to bring the possibility of sex smuggling to the attention of Scotland Yard.

Upon eavesdropping on a few call sessions -- ”Purely quality control,” the owner had assured -- he’d picked up on language that simply didn’t seem... on. Though he’d brought it to the attention of the official authorities, he found no legal means of investigating further which was how Sherlock had come to be involved.

For an exorbitant sum (John was sure he’d be able to purchase a rather nice Smart Car with his portion of the earnings if he so chose) Sherlock had agreed and had assisted the owner in implementing top of the line, covert recording technology at the site.

Over a month's worth of tapes were compiled and Lestrade had managed to pull some strings to lend the two of them a few of the lower-level interns to type up the transcripts of the tapes for them. Now, now... now just to dig through slews of dirty conversations, hours of sultry talk.

‘Not a hard task at all,’ John thinks to himself, adding with a silent laugh, ‘Pun intended.’

The kettle clicks and he pours the boiling water into the French press, replaces the lid and steps back into the sitting room while it steeps.

“Now, let’s review,” John begins, attempting to gather his patience about him. Sherlock does so hate to repeat himself but John honestly can’t recall what exactly they’re on the lookout for. “What _exactly_ am I keeping an eye out for?”

He seats himself beside his flatmate and places a palm atop a sheet to pull it in front of him. There’s an impatient sigh to his right and John turns his gaze just in time for Sherlock to ruffle his hands maniacally through his hair. “We’ve established that there are men who call that have information on the couriers,” he mentions slowly, condescendingly.

John shifts his knee quickly to knock against Sherlock’s in a gentle reprimand. “...yes...”

“We’re searching the transcripts for any indications about which operators, if there are indeed more than one, are part of the smuggling scheme.” Sherlock maneuvers his fingers above the mess of paper as though playing an invisible piano.

“Right, okay, yes.” He nods and eyes the stack of transcripts to the left of them. “And we read through all of these... sex call transcripts and... I have to be honest Sherlock, I’m not sure what sort of language would be considered out of the ordinary,” he huffs as his cheeks heat a bit.

“As someone so clearly _experienced_ in this area John, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble.” Sherlock snorts in amusement, adding, “Not to mention you were in the army, aren’t you in the habit of searching or being on high alert for inconsistencies of sorts?”

“Alright,” John grumbles. “I suppose I’ll... just learn as I go.” John settles his eyes on the top page of the stack in front of him and begins reading. It’s a matter of seconds before he stumbles upon a rather lewd description about what the female caller is supposedly wearing.

Or, rather, _not_ wearing. John swallows thickly and bites at the top of his lip, fighting his way to the bottom of the page, attempting not to flip to the next too eagerly.

A moment or two later he gets up to retrieve the coffee and is grateful for the excuse to take a minute to compose himself. It’s not that he hadn’t anticipated these conversations to be extremely racy, it is the mere fact that he’s sitting and reading pure, unadulterated pornography directly next to Sherlock who is reading similar smutty text. It‘s... indecent and improper and if it wasn’t for a case he would be sure that this was some sort of sadistic sexual torture.

Though surely Sherlock wouldn’t view it as such; John isn’t entirely certain Sherlock understands the blatant sexual nature of all of this.

He’s keenly aware of the heat between his legs as he stirs the sugar into the pungent liquid and tropes back in, mugs steaming in his hands. For a moment he scissors his thighs, tiny, minute shivers until he feels a bit of the pressure relent and he sits.

Sherlock takes his mug without a word, fingers flying against the paper as he reads, pen making hasty scribbled notes here and there.

After a bit Sherlock snorts, “This is absurd,” he mentions almost to himself, x-ing out another page of smut. “Sausage,” he adds and huffs in amusement again.

“Hmmm?” John finds his throat quite dry as he tears his gaze from his reading, x-ing out his own page as he goes.

“That sausage... is a euphemism,” he speaks, all the while reading along a fresh page. “For a penis.”

There’s a compulsion to laugh at Sherlock’s statement but John quells it, taps his fingers restlessly against his knee. “Ah,” he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes flash with condescension, “And that people actually _employ_ it when intending to _arouse someone_...”

John finishes off the last of his cold coffee, “Well, to each his own.”

Distractedly, Sherlock responds, “I suppose, and in this case, it’s _her_ own." There’s a smile in his voice as he says it and then they’re silent for quite a long time. There is the rasp of paper moving against paper and Sherlock’s little hums and snorts as he finds something he can’t quite believe. The squeak of felt tip as suspicious words are circled and notations made.

The discarded sheets go into one pile, the relevant pages form a much smaller one just to the right of it. It nears three o’clock when John leans back, cracking his linked hands above his head and yawns. Sherlock takes no notice, instead writing in brash, red ink along the margin of his page. When he clears his throat, the detective jumps, freezes, whips his head to glance at John.

“...yes?”

John blinks and sighs, bringing his hands back to his lap. “It’s three?”

Sherlock glares for a moment, “And?”

“So not sleeping then, alright,” he watches as Sherlock returns to his pile apparently not tired in the least. Annoyed, sleepy, infuriatingly half-aroused, John picks up his papers and puts them in order between his hands. Still he watches, watches Sherlock as his eyes flit and flick and read; the sight only serves to arouse him further.

He becomes exasperated with himself; now certainly isn’t the time to go about ogling Sherlock. Not with a thick layer of _sex_ oily over his entire consciousness. Not the time at all. Then again, John reasons, there’s no time that’s particularly _proper_ to go about thinking of one’s best friend’s cock, arse, mouth...

...so, now’s just as fine a time as any, really.

Hands over his face, John flops back onto the couch, papers still in hand; slowly, the detective turns to gaze at him, partly upset at the interruption, partly amused.

“This seems,” John rasps, holding the paper out at arms length with one hand as he trails the other through his hair, “too voyeuristic Sherlock it’s...”

“What?”

He passes his tongue of his lips, brings a hand to his face and smears the palm of his hand down and over his eyes and nose. With a deep breath, he presses on. “This is all very... sexual.”

How very... obvious.

Sherlock blinks once, eyes slitting a fraction. “Yes. It _is_ a sex line. I appreciate you discovering this nearly five hours after we started; well _done_ John.” As though there is any confusion as to this fact, as though there is any subterfuge regarding what sort of business they’re reading the transcripts _from_. Blatant mentions of ‘cock’ and ‘cunt’ and ‘pussy’ and ‘prick’ are rife. Graphic descriptions on the sort of _moans_ that each of the participants uttered dot the page.

John can’t even manage to _think_ of the Scotland Yard interns who must have been tasked with typing these up. That would be perverse; he can’t imagine _anyone_ having to listen to these tapes and describe them in such disturbingly (and arousingly) lurid detail.

Some of these people must be amateur novelists or at least had been invested in a trashy romance tome at some point in their lives because the descriptions of what was happening non-verbally was nearly too colorful.

To say the absolute very least.

To speak more to the point, the phraseology is so lurid and vivid that there’s absolutely nothing John can do to pretend that he’s not aroused by it. There’s nothing John can tell himself to convince his mind to disconnect itself from the words he’s reading, to keep his imagination from running much like an Olympic sprinter completely away from him. There’s nothing he can do to halt the twitch of his prick in his trousers.

“It... yes... it is,” he says and bites his bottom lip, sucking in a long, deep breath, willing the blood to stop rushing so vehemently in his ears.

Sherlock’s eyes flash dangerously and yet not a muscle on his face even twitches with the intensity of it. “Problem?”

John takes a moment and then settles on glaring at the other man. He’s not so completely socially removed that he wouldn’t understand that reading language like this might just cause someone to become aroused. Surely he must be at least partially aware that John is a hot-blooded male who isn’t immune to such overtly sexual recountings.

Surely he doesn’t think John could read things such as, “Let me have your cock, baby, let me choke on it,” without becoming overheated.

Between gritted teeth John growls, “Not a single,” and then tosses down the sheet he’s perusing. When he stands it’s on shockingly rubbery legs but he locks his knees, regains his balance, and stalks into the kitchen. There’s the pressure of Sherlock’s gaze against his back the entire way and when he steps up to the kettle, trying to decide on more coffee or more tea, the other man calls to him.

“Tea, please!”

Screwing up his face, he places his palms flat against the counter, the cool surface causing a thrill to run down his spine. And just to spite him, just to be contrary John shouts back, “Wasn’t making tea.”

“Oh?”

John blinks, wondering what he was going to opt for since he’d stupidly nixed tea as an option. With a flick of his gaze upward, he settles on the cupboard to the right of the sink and flings it open. He unearths a half-empty (half-full? He can’t decide what mood he’s in) bottle of bourbon and holds it up to the light. “Bourbon,” John decides with a judicious nod and Sherlock’s eyes widen, the man looking at him as though he’s being irrational.

But then just as the look appears it vanishes and Sherlock’s face is back to a mask of casual indifference. “Please,” comes the response as though John had offered at all.

With a roll of his eyes John finds two tumblers and measures our two fingers in each, opting for no ice. No sense in watering down a good whiskey, he reasons to himself and slips the lip of both glasses between the fore and middle finger of his right hand and with his left, totes the bottle back into the sitting room.

“Mmm.” Sherlock hums distractedly and holds out a grabby hand for his tumbler. For a moment John toys with the idea of knocking Sherlock’s back himself but relents as the man moves his fingers more pointedly, agitated. No reason making things any more tense.

Sherlock’s fingers settle against the crystal and he brings the glass to his lips without moving his eyes from the transcript before him. John tries not to watch as the muscles of his throat move to swallow, tries not to gauge the tilt of his lips or the creases around his eyes as he sniffs in pleasure. When the tip of his tongue peeks out to settle against his bottom lip, John gulps and takes half of his bourbon in one, long swallow.

“Pace yourself,” Sherlock mentions without lifting his eyes though the left side of his mouth jumps in a warm smile.

‘Fucking git,’ John thinks and settles himself back on the sofa, pulling another few pages from the dwindling stack.

With his glass to his lips, Sherlock turns to glance at John, resting his free elbow against the arm of the sofa as he leans back. “The color in your cheeks is high.”

John’s cheek twitches, “S’the bourbon.”

Sherlock blinks, the hint of a smile toying with his mouth; he dangles his tumbler between long fingers and watches as the amber liquid sways back and forth. “Is it now.”

“Yes,” he grinds out, shifting forward to refill his glass.

“Then it’s not that you’re responding to this, to this,” and with a flash of a grin, Sherlock takes up the paper nearest to him. “‘You’re so hard, so fucking hard. I can feel you leaking through your pants,’” his voice rumbles low, Sherlock putting on an air.

John doesn’t bite, he won’t bite, he won’t rise to the bait. “‘How do you want me, sweetheart. My mouth or my hand on your cock? How do you want me? You can have me any way you’d like...’”

John can’t help it, his heart rate speeds to a death-patter and his breath comes in rushed pants; when Sherlock raises his gaze to meet John’s, who’s altogether too slow and sluggish at looking away. John catches a particularly thrilled glint in the seastorm.

Sherlock's tongue passes over his top lip, slicking it sweetly pink before growling, “Don’t _lie_ to me, John.”

Another thick swallow, John fastidiously avoids his gaze. Just for something to do he sips, sips, gulps from his glass. “Not lying.”

Sherlock looks back down, “Of course not,” he claims, turning innocently back to his sheet. “‘I want to feel your hot prick in my...’”

He stops, abruptly, eyes widening and then squinting.

“What?” John can’t believe he asks, cannot fathom how his mouth is moving at all.

Sherlock glances up and John goes to speak, thinks better of it , and licks his lips. After sucking in a breath he finishes, “‘-in my love tunnel.’”

Sherlock freezes, nearly half-way to a smile.

John freezes as well and just as abruptly as every molecule in the room had frozen, it bursts to life as a sharp bark of laughter tears itself from John’s throat. Sherlock is silent for another moment before erupting in a bout of chuckles of his own; the sound causes John to laugh harder, clutch at his stomach. “That is horrific, just, just awful! Mills and Boon terrible, dear god, people are turned on by _that_?”

Sherlock’s laughter peters off, “It’s quite obvious John, you’ve had a reaction to it.”

“Not to _that_ ,” he clarifies as his own chuckles taper off. “ _That’s_ not... to the other...” John catches himself before he admits anything further but even as he does, his cheeks flush and the tips of his ears heat; really, honestly, he needs to stop blushing.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curls and he pulls primly at the edges of his paper, bringing it closer to his face as though reading intently; when he pulls back he smiles sweetly at John before leaping into a sexual monologue that from anyone else would be nearly too hot to comprehend. Coming from Sherlock’s lips, John is fairly certain he’ll be reduced to ash.

“‘I,’” Sherlock begins, takes a deep breath and pitches his voice even lower. “‘I want to be inside you, inside you so _badly_. Do you know how much I want that? How often I think of you when I’m lying in my bed, alone? I take my fingers and wrap them around myself and pretend that they’re your fingers, touching me, making me feel so good.’” John’s eyes slip closed but he can hear Sherlock lick at his lips in the dense silence of the flat. “Do you know that? That you make me feel good? That I touch myself and want it to be you making me feel good? Biting at my thighs, taking my cock into your mouth and making me feel-’”

There’s a hitch in his voice and a slow exhale and John finds it within himself to peek an eye open, scans what he can from where he sits against the back of the sofa. He takes it in: the messy table, Sherlock’s knees, his hands fisted, resting against the fabric of his thighs, the sheet of paper discarded on the floor.

And the apex of Sherlock’s thighs, an apparent bulge straining against bespoke Savile Row trousers.

John’s brain goes completely offline for two, three-

“Sherlock, what... what are you...?”

The other man swallows audibly and John can feel the sofa dip as he shifts a bit closer. They’re not touching, not nearly, but they’re certainly sitting too close for it to be proper on such a large piece of furniture. “Terrible scripting, really, just...” Another deep, held breath. “Atrocious.”

John sucks his lips into his mouth, runs his tongue over them and wills his body to relax. But Sherlock continues speaking. “I can’t believe that _anyone_ is aroused by _that_.”

There’s an extended silence and John wonders briefly if Sherlock has given up trying to get a rise out of him. Heat has pooled in his belly, a heady combination of the alcohol and vicious, heavy arousal. He swallows, willing his hands to move, to press against the sofa, hopes against hope that his legs will allow him to stand and retreat to his room to relieve the pressure between his thighs.

But of course not, Sherlock begins speaking again. “Perhaps because it’s too... facile. Too... ambiguous. You could say that to... anyone, couldn’t you? And wouldn’t that take you right out of the fantasy? Wouldn’t you rather someone talk about wanting to weave their fingers into the sandy hair at the nape of your neck and tug back until your throat was exposed?”

John attempts to swallow but he can’t; his mouth has gone stunningly dry.

“So that they could nose against your throat, see how you smell just _there_ , take in your spicy, homey scent? Wouldn’t you rather they talk about moving their tongue against your shoulder, testing the marred skin with their mouth and teeth to see how you would react?” Sherlock’s moved even closer; John feels like he’s losing every last bit of reality he’s ever had.

“Or... how they would press their thumb to that small, intricate scar on your right wrist and feel your pulse as they pressed their lips just to the right of yours, felt your lips as they begged to press fully against, against,” and John knows it’s coming, he’s aware of the word that Sherlock is about to speak and he doesn’t even think to stop it. Because he wants it, he wants it desperately.

“Mine,” he finally finishes a bit desperately, a bit rough.

“Sherlock-”

“Wouldn’t it be better, brighter, much more tangible if I were to tell you what I would _do_ to you, John?”

“I... alright, yes, well, that would... that would be much... more arousing,” John answers the question as though it had called for one. “I, I, jesus Sherlock, I-”

“And I, John, would like very much in this moment to _touch you_.” The detective’s nose presses against John’s temple, breath puffing against his ear.

Lips guppy for a moment, trying to find purchase on language, any sort of speech. “Yes, yes, _please_.”

A warm, solid hand moves against John’s thigh before reaching out and cupping John through his trousers, light enough to seem searching, but with an intent that leaves no doubt in John’s mind. Turning his head, John shifts so that his mouth presses open against Sherlock’s neck and he tastes, tastes.

John knows Sherlock as muted and spicy but what he finds here is dangerous and warm and delicious and with bravado, John sneaks his tongue out to lick there just as he moves his hand to settle against Shelock’s thigh. “Hate to...” his voice sounds distant and croaky. “Have to ask but after everything everyone has implied... I just want to know that you understand where this is headed.”

Sherlock stills, pulls back until he can look at John, right at him. Pupils have blown wide and the color that’s painted his cheeks is the most debauched shade of pink. “Of course, John. I’m going to take you into my bedroom and _undo_ you.”

John groans at that, his lips pulling wide in a silly, indulgent grin. “Oh god, you’re a bad man.”

“Let’s hope,” Sherlock agrees before rushing forward and devouring him in a kiss. Teeth knock against teeth and tongues meet sloppily and damn it if John isn’t at the brink of arousal; he wasn’t sure before this moment that he could feel so entirely lit up, needy, wanting. Sherlock’s thumbs find John’s cheekbones and he deepens the kiss, straightens his body, stands so that he is before the doctor, pressing him back into the couch.

Upon pulling back he secures his fingers around John’s wrist and tugs insistently, back turned as he leads him through the kitchen and into his bedroom. Sherlock walks to the center of the room and moves his fingers against the buttons at his wrist methodically, turning back towards John as he does so and John, not knowing what to do, steps back and closes the door.

“You understand, of course,” Sherlock speaks in a deceptively clear and normal voice, “That this... changes things.”

Clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides, John thinks on that for a moment. Of course this changes things, of _course_ it does. There’s no falling into bed with your best friend and flatmate without turning everything on its head. John searches past the fog of arousal and really ponders this; he’d _die_ for this man, he’d do just about _anything_ for this man.

And he knows, he _knows_ straight down to his core that Sherlock, for all of his professed void of emotion, feels the same.

Sharing his body with the man will change things, but it won’t change the things that matter; it won’t change _them_.

“Yes,” John breathes. “Yes, I understand.” Sherlock nods and begins on the buttons on the front of his shirt. “And you understand,” John rushes out, “That I’m... quite alright with that.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock smiles almost shyly as he slips the shirt from his shoulders. “You say that now, but what if this isn’t... fabulous.”

John too smiles, feels some of the tension drain right out of him. “Hm, well, yes, there is that. But you’re extraordinary and _I’m_ extraordinary and even though we’re going to fumble through this-” Sherlock gives him a disparaging look from under thick lashes as he advances a pace. “I’m sure it’ll all be... just fine.”

“Just fine,” Sherlock says, acceptingly as he begins on the buttons of John’s shirt. “Let’s see if we can do one better than _that_ , shall we?” Sherlock’s fingers shake minutely as he undoes the buttons and when he’s through, about to press the fabric off of John’s shoulders, the other man stops him.

“Wait wait, I,” John sighs and blinks slowly. “Kiss me again,” he asks quietly. “Please.”

Sherlock tilts his head and seems to be thinking over something before he gives a tiny little nod. “Alright.” And it’s without the sharp edge of arousal that they’d felt before; it’s slow, languid. Hands move with precision over skin and the angles of bones, curve around jaws and sneak down to cup an arsecheek. Breaths felt against cheeks are humid, labored; lips meet cheeksjawboneseyebrows and it’s all much more than it was originally. 

Suddenly, without either of them having noticed, _everything_ curls around them.

Everything.

“This may have... I may have... underestimated this,” Sherlock speaks into the shell of John’s ear.

“Yes, I... yeah,” John returns and maneuvers Sherlock back, moving his mouth over the jutting of jawbone against snowdrift and shadow skin. Sherlock tolerates this only for a moment before turning the tables and pressing John back against the bed.

“Trousers,” Sherlock urges, undoing his own. It’s a bit of a fumble, trying to divest themselves quickly and although John tries to retain some dignity, he tears his socks off with such ardor that his arm nearly clips Sherlock’s jaw. In his pants, he scoots up on the bed, fighting against the skittish nerves he’s suddenly feeling. Sherlock advances on palms and knees, crawls over John until he’s crowding him and gazes at him for a long moment before leaning in for another kiss.

There’s a moment where John doesn’t know where to put his hands, during which he remembers that he’s kissing a man, that he’s kissing Sherlock. Before he can sink too far into that train of thought, Sherlock slips a hand beneath his lower back and helps him to lay out flat against the plush duvet.

Sherlock takes his time, kisses down John’s chest, beneath his arms, the hollow of his throat and elbows. John keens for it, tiny little whimpers that he could certain try to tamp down on but does not. “I do believe I said something,” Sherlock rumbles, runs the back of his knuckles against the thick bulge in John’s pants, “about undoing you.”

“Hmmmmmmm, mmmhmmm,” is all he can manage as he watches through slitted eyes as Sherlock slides down, runs the tip of his nose against John’s pants. It’s absolutely obscene, John thinks, when Sherlock opens his mouth and presses it over the cotton, huffing a humid breath through the fabric. He moves his mouth over John’s clothed prick, licking at the fabric with his tongue, nipping at it gently with sharp teeth. Sherlock suckles a moment at the head before slipping two fingers beneath the waistband and baring just the crown of John’s cock.

Pursing his lips, Sherlock presses a kiss to the slit, hums against it. “God, fuck!” John cries, fisting fingers into the sheets in order to keep from moving his hips. Sherlock laves attention on what is exposed of John’s cock with open mouthed kisses, trailing his tongue around the crown delicately, lingering at the slit to gather up the precome.

“Hmmm,” he hums again, climbs back up John’s body, curling his fingers around his cock as he does so.

“My god,” John slurs sloppily against his mouth, pausing to kiss him deeply. “My god, you’re brilliant.”

“Yes,” Sherlock hums again happily, moving to press his cheek against John’s to take a breath. “We’re both rather fantastic,” and he pushes John’s pants down, off of his hips.

John takes that instant to slip his hand beneath the waistband of Sherlock’s boxer briefs, runs the back of his fingers down the length of his cock. “That’, that’s,” John gasps. “Talk to me,” he says, turning his palm up to fist around Sherlock’s prick, thumb against the slit.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees and settles on his side; he buries his face in John’s neck. “I thought about this, about you... often. More often than I would have liked, so often it became a distraction. And all along, I’ve forced myself to believe that having you, that wanting you like this would be a disadvantage... but your skin, John...” Sherlock bites at John’s carotid, soothes over it with the flat of his tongue. For a moment he stops touching and brings his hand palm up to his face, licking his fingers. When he touches again, it’s against John’s perineum, index finger slipping even further below, briefly.

John, all the while, pulls at Sherlock’s prick slowly, methodically, twisting his wrist just so on the upstroke; it’s difficult within the confines of silk, cotton and elastic but John makes do. When Sherlock lifts off, he too takes the hint slipping tongue against and between fingers before finding his way back to Sherlock’s pants, pressing them down as far as he’s able with the back of his hand.

“Your skin, John... against mine, knowing it now, how can I go without? How?” Sherlock noses up his jaw and plants a delicate little kiss on the side of his nose. “Knowing your face like this, how my tongue feels flat against your stomach, your cock... how you taste... how?”

John can’t help it, he bucks into Sherlock’s hand and the detective slants himself as far onto John’s body as possible without disrupting either of their rhythms. John’s wrist cramps up a bit and he shifts a bit as well, finds his mouth against Sherlock’s, just breathing into his mouth. Sherlock breathes back, presses into John as hard as he can.

When he comes it’s with a startled little grunt; his body goes rigid even as his hips pump once, twice and he rests for a moment, takes a breath with his hand still around John’s cock. “How, John?” he croaks, dragging his face against John’s.

John wants to answer, wants to tell him that if it’s up to him, Sherlock won’t have to be without this. John wants to answer, but all he can manage, with Sherlock’s forehead warm against John’s temple is, “Sherlock, jesusfuck _god_ ,” and he comes, messy against his stomach and Sherlock’s hand.

He works with him through it, lightening his strokes as John’s hips stutter and stop, body slumping into the bed with a long sigh. Sherlock manages to hold himself up on an elbow for a moment before he blinks and lays down too, putting a few inches of distance between himself and John.

They say nothing, not a word. John finds his discarded shirt and cleans himself up as daintily as possible, the post-sex fuzz wearing off ever so slightly. He turns towards Sherlock who is watching him intently and holds the shirt up at eye-level, offering it to him silently.

Hesitantly, Sherlock takes it, wiping at what little had managed to escape his pants before grimacing and dropping the shirt between them. “You should,” John says awkwardly, “ Take those... all the way off.”

“Pardon?”

John blinks. “Your... pants. That can’t be comfortable.”

Sherlock blinks back and severs eye contact only long enough to divest himself of the uncomfortable underwear and finish cleaning himself off.

They stare at each other for a long, silent minute.

“How do you... feel?” Sherlock asks eventually, his fingers twitching against the duvet; John watches as his digits move and reaches out a palm to cover them, thinks twice about it, picks up Sherlock’s hand and pulls it over to rest on his hip.

John answers with a small smile, “Undone. I feel... undone.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says. “Well, yes, I suppose...”

John’s smile spreads, widens into a grin. Sherlock’s mouth begins to flit upwards as well of its own accord. “What?”

“Nothing,” John sighs happily. “Nothing, I… That was… nice. Hearing you say those things and… It was all quite nice.”

“Then you would have no objection to perhaps attempting it again without such... disturbingly graphic and stimulating foreplay?” He raises a brow and John laughs; disturbingly stimulating, yes, that is the perfect descriptor for their evening of work.

“No, no objections and I have to say that I’d likely prefer it without this evening’s unexpected 'foreplay'.”

Sherlock nods and John tugs at his wrist a little, inviting him closer, to cross the chasm of empty bed. “I would however not object to you, erm, well... to you talking to me. Like that... how you...”

Sherlock glances at the ceiling and smiles selfishly. “You like my voice.”

“I do.”

“You like when I talk about what I’d like to do to you.”

“I really do, apparently,” John chuckles and wonders if he should try to snuggle Sherlock.

“Interesting,” Sherlock says. “Interesting.” Without preamble he shifts his body and curls it around John’s, effectively taking the decision out of his hands.

For a long while, neither of them move, and when Sherlock does, it is only to shift them underneath the thick blankets that are atop his bed. 

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Lori, Samantha and Robyn.
> 
> loveanddeathandartandtaxes basically hacked at this with a machete which I appreciate more than she could possibly know!


End file.
